Ok as promised I will start by relating the tale of the Miracle of Bue's Washing Machine.
When I am in Torino, which I am it seems quite a chunk of times these days, I stay at the crib of Bue my Italian gay husband from the band Larsen. Though it's not a legal union it's just like a real marriage except without all the fighting. We have much in common, we both share a love for Latin American and religious imagery, Mexico and tv series such as the Sopranos. He likes good movies, I like good movies. He smokes and I smoke. He likes men and I like men. He looks like a more manly and more Italian version of George Clooney. I love Bue's company and I love staying in his apartment, but I am sure even heaven has idiosyncrasies and Bue's lovely home is no exception.
Laundry is a real concern while touring. It take stratigising, forethought and imagination. Access to a washing machine is like winning the lottery. A washing machine qualifies as a victory of the day (see tour diary part one). Bue's washing machine though, has a habit of flooding the place at a certain point in the wash cycle. You can hear when it's getting ready to gush like the Geyser at Yellowstone - it makes a clunking noise. So anyway the other day, I gave myself three hours for chores so that after showering and dressing so this precious gift of the promise of clean clothes could be fully exploited. I stood by, unlit Marlboro in mouth and mop in hand, and awaited for the death rattle. Sure enough, the clunking started and a pool of laundry water spread like blood around the victim in a bad detective movie. So I mop and wrung and mop and eco-nomically recycle the soapy puddle to scrub Bue's marble floor. How green is my valley and small my carbon footprint? I lit my post aquatic cigarette, a bit sweaty-browed but satiated, and got on with packing, tidying up and enjoying the good feeling of instant gratification that housework chores evoke.
That whole day prior to this, due to my sleepless nights I had been in major klutz mode - banging my hipbone at least five times on the desk, taking a lunge across the room as a result of tripping over one of Bue's bar bells, poking myself in the eye with a mascara wand, burning my fingers with a mini lighter and finally drenching myself with cream after stupidly squeezing those single serving foil containers while rinsing it so it could be put in the trash without making the kitchen smell of sour calcium. So was truly enjoying this me-and-my-mop time. I mean was this not a sign that I had regained my equilibrium? But despite my smugness, it started to dawn on me that the washing machine was still rhythmically chugging away for an awful long time. The problem here being that I couldn't leave the two foot area of floor next to the machine, as I reasoned that if It was in fact repeating the whole cycle without any prompting, then the possibility of another deluge was Very Real. It occurred to me that maybe it was indeed already flooding and I just couldn't see it yet, so I ran the rag mop under and over and around and then wasn't sure if it was moist from earlier or if the was in fact new water I didn't dare risk it so kept mopping.
Fabrizio also from Larsen, and also my Euro agent, was due to pick me up soon and take me back his place to prepare a cocktail gathering to celebrate his boyfriend's Paul's birthday. I could just about reach the phone from my two foot square raft on my sea of chaos...debating to call Farbrizio and cancel. What would be worse? Dissing my friend on his birthday (I mean that's cold), or leaving my post on flood watch (pictures of Bue returning from Milan to find apartment now a debris filled swimming pool or maybe even the weight of the water causing the seven stories below to have collapsed, the international Red Cross parked outside the destroyed apartment house passing out lousy coffee and wrapping red blankets around hundreds of homeless residents, barefoot, sooty faces striped with tears and a lone much loved teddy bear looking up lost eyed staring from a pile of mud).
I'm by this point soaked with sweat, breathless. down on my knees trying to turn the damn thing off. Sweet Jesus, dear God so merciful and good. PLEASE MAKE THE WASHING MACHINE STOP!!! This is how the world ends - not with a bang but with a spin cycle.
But then it stopped. A minute or so later the little round window door opened clothes spotless and damp. Not only had I had my victory of the day, but I prayed and God answered my prayers. I never doubted he would.
xo Little Annie